You walked into the briefing room and the air changed. Silent glances. Recognition. No one had to say your name—they already knew it.

Your case had made headlines. Partner dead. You took three bullets. Brought in the bodies. Blew your cover and half the DEA’s along with it. Since then, you’d been off the grid. And now? You were standing in front of L.A.’s top task force.

Nathan Blythe stood at the front of the room like he owned time itself.

“Amber Oliveras, DEA. Tactical specialist. Evan Shepherd, FBI—behavioral. Keyonte Bell, ex-military, cyber intel. Luke Finau, LAPD—Major Crimes. Mark Meachum, LAPD. Robbery-Homicide. He’s been in this longer than some of you’ve been breathing.”

Then he looked to you.

“And this—”

“—is a goddamn liability,” Meachum interrupted.

The whole room tensed. Meachum hadn’t moved from his place leaning on the edge of the table, coffee in hand, voice calm but sharp enough to cut bone.

“You really bringing her in here?” he said, staring at Blythe but clearly talking about you. “She’s not a ghost. She’s a damn spotlight. Everyone on the street knows her face.”

“She also pulled three cartel shooters down with her bare hands while bleeding out,” Bell muttered, like he couldn’t help himself.

“And got every dealer in L.A. to learn her face,” Meachum shot back. “You think any of this is undercover? Hell, half the city knows her story better than ours.”

“She’s here because I put her here,” Blythe cut in, voice like a slammed door.

“She also survived something none of you have,” Blythe said tightly. “And she did it without backup.”

Meachum’s eyes flicked to you, unimpressed.

“She better not get any of us killed.”

You didn’t blink.

Let him talk. Let them all. You weren’t here to be liked.

You were here because you didn’t stay down. And maybe that was exactly what scared them.